


The Hidden Truth

by Honeybeebatch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Pregnancy, Childhood, Crime, Dysfunctional Family, F/F, F/M, Family, Family Fluff, Family Secrets, Father-Daughter Relationship, Growing Up, M/M, Mycroft-centric, Original Character Death(s), Single Parents, Snippets, Unusual childhood, after series four, daddy Mycroft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 18:12:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9619190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeybeebatch/pseuds/Honeybeebatch
Summary: This is based on a prompt I made on twitter: Mycroft Holmes comes home to find Greg Lestrade with his daughter, his secret daughter that he hasn't told anyone about, even Greg.Basically, this is a montage kinda thing of Mycroft being a father and is mainly snippets from the life of his child as she grows up.If you have any prompts retaining to this idea please let me know.





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft Holmes was not in the business of frequenting cafes without good reason, there was the one occasion with John Watson and the whole Irene Adler business, and a few occasions with Gregory, with their busy schedules it was the easiest way to ‘catch up’. However, if the occasion did call for it, he would usually have tea if they had an acceptable brand, but today he was drinking coffee, nothing fancy, a simple plain black coffee, no sugar, made with expensive strong beans.

But even the rich coffee could not distract him from what he had just heard.

 _Impossible._ There was no way.

“I’m pregnant,” Claire repeated, raising her voice a little louder than before, but making sure to keep her tone low enough that she didn’t disturb the people sat around them.

Mycroft faltered, eyes narrowing and carefully placed his mug back on the table. He cleared his throat, placing both hands on the table, clasping them together as he did so. “Pregnant.” He repeated, slowly and surely, eyes flicking over her.

Claire, an old flame of his from university was recently in London for work, still single, Mycroft decided to contact her after his experiences on Sherrinford. It was casual, no feelings involved, purely sex and now…

“Yes,” Claire nodded, her own coffee untouched.

Mycroft felt sick. He inhaled deeply and swallowed the feeling down.

The signs were there: pale skin with a slight nervous flush down her neck and chest, fingers drumming on the desk. Mints at the top of her bag, an old remedy for sickness, the hunch of her shoulders from backache and bags under her eyes, clear signs of tiredness.

“I thought,” he lowered his voice and He peeled his sweaty palms apart, placing his hands on his knees, and tapping out Frédéric Chopin’s Nocturne in B-Flat Minor, a favourite of his when he was younger. He hunched forward on the table, licking his lips quickly, his throat suddenly dry. “I thought that we’d taken all necessary precautions.”

“ _We_ did. But nothing is certain.” She responded

 “You plan to keep it,” he said, a deduction. There was no way in hell that she’d get rid of it, the urge to be a mother was written all over her. Claire nodded. “And you have a plan, I assume.”

“I’ll move back to London, at least for the pregnancy, then after I’ll move back to Sussex by the sea. I’ll work until the due date, of course, and it’s completely up to you how involved you are.”

“Do you expect me to _sit back_ and let you raise it alone?” He asked, offended.

“Well, you’re hardly the baby type.” She argued.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at that. It was true. “I suppose that is correct but the fact remains, it is my child.”

“You can stop saying _it_ then!” she hissed, leaning forward. “It’s a baby, not an _it_.”

Mycroft was stunned, he didn’t show it. He kept up his mask of indifference, indifference and power. “My apologies.”

“So, you want to be involved?”

“Yes.” Mycroft said without hesitation.

 

 

*

 

 

“I’ve got my first antenatal class,” Claire mentioned over lunch one day, a few weeks later.

“Isn’t it a bit early?” Mycroft asked. Of course, he’d been reading up on pregnancy and birth and babies and such in preparation, but it seemed early, even to him.

Claire shrugged and stabbed a piece of cucumber with her fork. “I don’t think it will ever be too early to learn how to push a baby-”

“Quite,” Mycroft interrupted with a polite smile.

“I’m going to have to make a birthing plan soon.” She sighed. “You’ll be my birthing partner, right?”

“If you’ll have me.”

“Well, you’re the best person for the job. Not squeamish are you?”

_“Remember me.” The Governor had sobbed before pulling the trigger. His body falling to the floor, against the now blood-stained blood, the bullet shell clinking nosily against the floor._

_He turned away, the urge to throw up overwhelming and choked, bracing one arm against the wall as the other went to his mouth, coughing violently in a desperate attempt not to vomit._

“Me? Squeamish?” He raised an eyebrow.

Claire snorted in amusement and focused again on her lunch.

Mycroft took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment.

Mycroft Holmes was not squeamish.

 

 

*

 

 

“So, she’s pregnant then.” Sherlock sniffed, plucking at the second string of his violin.

Mycroft sighed. “It would seem so.”

“And you’re keeping it?”

Mycroft nodded his head and fingered the handle of his umbrella thoughtfully.

“A child born out of wedlock, how mundane of you, brother mine.” The younger Holmes quipped.

“Sherlock.” John scolded as he came back into the room. He placed Rosie on the floor.

“Well, accidents do happen.” Sherlock said, remedying his comment somewhat unsuccessfully.

“Yes, to us all, and how is domestic life treating you, brother mine?” Mycroft changed the subject, this was not a matter he wished to dwell on.

“No, don’t change the subject, your life is far more interesting. Have you thought of any names yet?”

Mycroft sighed and John glared at the consulting detective.

“This has been amusing,” Mycroft flashed a fake smile. “But I do have a country to run.”

 

 

*

 

“Do you want to know the sex?” Claire asked. They were sat in his office just before their second scan,Mycroft had been too busy to attend the first, a crisis in Russia that had required his immediate attention.

“Do you?” Mycroft asked, raising his eyebrow.

Claire shrugged. “I don’t know, the surprise would be nice but you’ll probably be able to deduce it from the screen and well, it’s easier if you know.”

“We can, not know, if you prefer.” Claire shrugged again. Mycroft sighed and continued. “It’s entirely up to you.”

“Well, this baby is half yours, if you want to know the sex, speak now.”

“No, I’d rather not.” He admitted.

Claire smiled and nodded.

 

 

*

 

 

“Do you see that?” Claire asked. She was reclined on the sofa, top rolled up and round belly exposed, glistening with the latest anti-stretchmark cream she had brought.

Mycroft hummed but didn’t look up, entirely focused on the files across his legs.

“Mycroft.” Claire called, this time with more urgency.

Mycroft sighed and looked up, to where Claire was gesturing, a spot on her stomach where a foot or hand kicked, stretching the skin. His mouth dropped slightly. “Is that a hand or a foot?”

“A foot, I think.”

Mycroft nodded to himself.

 

 

*

 

“Not long now.” Doctor Green beamed, her hands roaming over Clair’s exposed midsection, which resembled, to put it delicately, a watermelon. The skin, red and raw from stretching, was smooth and littered with marks.

“I feel like an elephant.” Claire mumbled but she was smiling. She enjoyed every part of the pregnancy.

“Well, you’ll have your beautiful baby soon, and that’s all that matters.” The doctor smiled. “It shouldn’t be more than a week, baby is already in position, and I think we’ll have a quick birth.”

“Is that all?” Mycroft asked, he had a meeting fast approaching. The baby was fine, that was all that mattered.

“I’d like to go through some of the risk, because of your age.”

“Haven’t we gone through that,” Claire huffed, pulling her top back over her belly and struggling to get up. Mycroft stepped forward and offered her two hands, one on her back and the other holding her hand, pulling her up into a seated position. She smiled in thanks.

“It’s worth going over again.” The doctor forced a smile.

“Mycroft, you should go, this is going to be long and boring.” Clair said, running a hand over her clothed belly.

“I can stay.” He cleared his throat.

 

 

*

 

 

“Anthea?” Mycroft pressed the phone to his ear. The lack of an immediate response caught his attention and he looked up, pressing the phone closer to his ear. “What’s wrong?”

A pause. “Claire’s gone into labour.”

“Which hospital?” Mycroft was already up and pulling on his coat, shifting his phone from one ear to the other so that he didn’t miss the answer.

“The royal London.”

“Something’s wrong.” He deduced. He strode out of his office, not bothering to close the door behind him, his receptionist, a young woman jerked in surprise and jumped to her feet. He addressed her, “I’m going to the hospital.”

The receptionist nodded but Mycroft was already gone, striding down the hallway. The lack of response did not escape his attention. “Anthea, what’s wrong?”

“She’s been having contractions for almost eleven hours.” Anthea admitted to her boss. “She called the hospital an hour ago and is still only two centimetres dilated, she’s tired and the labour is putting a lot of stress on both her and the baby.”

“Ten minutes.” Mycroft said

 

 

*

 

 

The hospital was full to the brim of sick and injured people, lined along the hallway and on the cheap plastic chairs provided, all waiting to see medical professionals. Mycroft strode through the automatic glass doors, his eyes flicking over the seemingly endless occupants of the reception area, ignoring the deductions that came along with each person.

He looked at the floor.

A desperate attempt to clear his mind.

_Too many people._

_Goldfish swimming around in a bowl._

There’s not enough time.

Mycroft inhaled deeply, looking up again, his eyes finding Anthea almost instantly. She was stood to the side of the room, where a large hallway lead into the heart of the hospital, leading off in all directions and different departments. She looked out of place in the hospital, her black skirt suit and deep blue shirt standing out against the bright, light colours of the hospital walls and floors. She was on her phone but looked up at her boss, sensing his presence, and was immediately at attention, pushing herself off of the wall and meeting him in the middle of the hallway.

“What’s happening?” Mycroft demanded, his body a mere inch from hers, eyes scanning her face.

Pale. Tired. Her nose twitching ever so slightly, a nervous habit of hers, and her eyes, though looking at him, were doing everything to avoid direct eye contact. A sheen of sweat collecting in her hairline.

_Nervous._

Mycroft licked his lips and raised his eyebrow expectantly.

“They moved her to the delivery room ten minutes ago. But I’m not family, they won’t tell me anything else.” She admitted, looking down at her phone as she did so.

Mycroft managed to nod and gestured for her to lead the way.  He watched his feet as he walked, his heel connected with the ground first, followed by the ball of his foot, it was a walking style he had adapted after many years of being overweight and decided that everything, even the way and pace that he walked, should be nothing short of perfect. Everything about oneself should add to the overall image, as he himself radiated power and intimidation, his walking style should also. The floor was a light grey colour that reflected the industrial powered hospital lights.

“Should I call you brother?” Anthea asked.

Mycroft looked up, his PA was glancing over her shoulder. He nodded. “Text him, you know how he hates phone calls. Tell him what you know, nothing more, no sense worrying him.”

“Sir,” she nodded in confirmation and fired off a text quicker than lightening.

The lift was still waiting as they approached and Anthea stepped forward; assuring that people knew that they were intended to get in, a young man, a nurse, put him arm in front of the door with a polite smile. Anthea returned the smile. It was a well-practiced smile, something she was used to in her line of work, liaising with some of the most powerful people in the world. They stepped inside and turned, to face the doors as they closed, sealing them inside.

“Which floor?” The male nurse asked.

“We need maternity.” Anthea responded, firing another text.

“Second floor.” He said more to himself than anything.

Mycroft tapped his foot.

“Should I call anyone else?” Anthea asked, voice low, discreet.

“My parents have yet to be informed of the situation.” He admitted.

Anthea nodded. “Greg?”

Mycroft looked at the ground. It was true that he and Gregory had become close in the months after Sherrinford, sharing the occasional coffee or dinner, he had yet to inform the detective inspector of the events leading him to the hospital. He knew, or at least he guessed, that Mycroft had been seeing someone but had no idea that she was pregnant.

Telling him now would be counterproductive.

“The detective inspector is not an option,” he said, angling his face towards her and keeping his voice low. He sniffed and pulled at his collar, gently, realigning it in the metal lift doors.

“Is there anyone else I can call for you?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Has Sherlock responded?”

Anthea shook her head. “Not yet, I’ll text him again. Permission to text John if that fails.”

Mycroft inhaled deeply and after a few seconds he released his breath, somewhat shakily. “Yes.”

The lift ground to a halt and the doors opened to reveal the second floor.

Mycroft stepped out first. The sign to maternity pointed left, he strode in that direction as Anthea walked beside him, texting as she went. She stopped a few moments later and gently placed her hand on his arm, he stopped and turned, facing the doors. “We’re not allowed beyond here.”

Mycroft nodded and turned to look opposite the door where there were a row of chairs. They both sat down, Anthea placing one ankle behind the other while Mycroft crossed his legs delicately. For the first time since arriving at the hospital he realised he’d forgotten his umbrella, he placed his hands on his knees, at a loss for what to do with himself, and sniffed.

“I left my umbrella at the office,” he said quietly.

“I’ll get someone to bring it to you.” She promised with a small smile.

So, they waited.

 

 

*

 

 

                                                    

A doctor, a middle aged man with grey hair at his temples, and their doctor, Doctor Green came from the doors, stepping into the hallway. Their eyes immediately landed on Mycroft and Anthea who stood as they entered.

_Something was wrong._

Bags under their eyes. Tired. Long shift. Long and difficult labour. Flushed. Scrubs clean. Perspiration stains under the armpits. Sweat along the forehead and top of the lip.

Doctor Green was wringing her hands together in a simple but well practices movements, in the way someone would put cream on or antibacterial.

The other doctor had his hands behind his back. His stance strong.

“Doctor Green,” Mycroft managed, mouth dry.

“Mycroft,” Doctor Green managed a small smile.

 “Is the baby ok?” He asked, voice threatening to crack. He placed his fist in front of his mouth and coughed, once, to clear his throat.

“Yes, the baby is fine, it was a long birth.” She assured him. Her voice was soft, too soft, eyes fixed on him and expression solemn. “It’s a girl, Mr Holmes, you have a beautiful daughter.”

Mycroft released the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Anthea’s hand shot to his arm and squeezed gently. He blinked once and cleared his throat. “Claire?”

Stupid. He already knew the answer.

“I’m afraid that there were complications during the labour.” The other, male, doctor informed him. “We were afraid that because of her age and the strain the labour put on her body. Despite our best efforts she haemorrhaged shortly after giving birth and we were unable to stop the bleed, I’m so sorry Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and bowed his head. He breathed in deeply. And out, softly, slowly.

_No tears._

He was the iceman after all.

He clasped his hands gently in front of his body and lifted his head, clearing his throat as he did so, he looked at Doctor Green. “I would like to see my daughter, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

Doctor Green nodded. “This way.”

Mycroft turned to Anthea and she looked down, a simple gesture. She was staying here then. He stepped forward and Doctor Green showed him through the corridor, his heart pounding against his chest with each step. They stopped outside a room. The door was open. Inside, a nurse was currently wrapping a baby in a light pink blanket.

The angle was wrong. He couldn’t see her properly.

Doctor Green stepped closer to the room and gestured for him to step in.

The nurse looked up and smiled, placing the bundle into the small hospital cot.

“Let’s give father a moment,” Doctor Green said. The nurse nodded and left the room with her.

Mycroft was left alone. He sighed, the sound was loud in the almost silent room. The only other sound was the soft breathing from the cot. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and took a step closer to the cot. Inside lay his daughter.

He took another step.

The baby, his baby, was beautiful.

She was swaddled in a pink blanket, wearing a white hat on her head and a white baby grow. Her skin was a charming shade of pink, vivid against the white of her clothes, and on one of her small round cheeks was a dimple. Her eyes were closed and her lashes, fair twitched against her cheek.  Her skin was still covered in vernix, a thin white coating from the birth, that was flaking slightly and would be washed off in a few hours. Her eyebrows were a similar colour to his own.

“Oh dear,” he finally spoke. She had inherited his colouring apparently.

He snorted.

The whole situation was ridiculous.

 _What has happened?_ He thought to himself.

He took another step closer to the crib so that he was stood beside it, hovering, craning his back so that he was watching his sleeping daughter from a horizontal angle. Her hand was balled into a fist, resting beside her face. He blinked, letting his eyes close leisurely. He moved his hand. He opened his eyes and reached towards her, using his index finger and the skin of her hand. It was warm. Warmer than he’d been expecting. He let his finger roam gently over her thumb, each finger, and then the small bit of palm that he could reach with her hand balled into a fist. He kept his touches light, feather light, so he was just ghosting the skin, unwilling to wake her.

“Well, what are we going to do with you?” He asked his sleeping daughter. “I suppose, the first thing on the agenda is naming you, your mother had ideas of course but…well, it’s just going to be you and me now. And the names she picked were awful.” He admitted, snorting at the memory of Claire asking his opinion on ‘Margaret’ and ‘Pamela’. A smile settled on his face, small but sure, a lopsided type of smile that was both genuine and something he wasn’t entirely used to. “I suppose, we’ll have to come up with something better than that. And then, when we’re allowed to, I’ll take you home with me.”

His daughter sneezed, successfully waking herself up and shocking him in the process. He bit his lip to stop from laughing at her and watched as she blinked sleepily, blue eyes cloudy. “Bless you.”

She looked up at him, eyes unable to process at this stage.

“I suppose we should do this properly.” He announced. He reached into the cot, with more caution than he’d ever used before, and picked up his daughter for the first time. One hand beneath her head, cradling it gently and the other beneath her small body. He lifted her up and placed her close to his chest, cradling her in his arms. He watched intently, pursing his lips as his eyes scanned over her body, checking that she was unharmed and secure in his arms.

“Right,” he said once he was satisfied. He managed a smile. She blinked up at him, clearly fighting the urge to fall back to sleep as her face wrinkled in confusion, a new face, a new world, brighter than the one she had previously inhabited. “I’m your father, I suppose you’ll call me that, or dad but never daddy, I insist.”

She yawned, fists coming up but not quite reaching her face, eyes closing.

“Yes, you go back to sleep.”

 

 

*

 

 

Mycroft remained like that for thirty-three minutes, undisturbed. He has sat down on a chair not long after picking her up, one leg crossed over the other and his daughter, a phrase he would never be quite used to saying, cradled in his long arms as she slept. His arms were rather stiff from holding the position but it was worth it, every ache and pain would be worth it for her. He watched her as she slept, each flutter of her eyelashes, or slight jerk as she slept.

There was a soft tap at the door and it opened. He didn’t have to look up to know that it was Doctor Green that stepped in, followed by a nurse. The perfume was a dead giveaway. She managed a small smile in greeting. “Mr Holmes.”

“Doctor Green.” He returned, looking up.

“We’re just going to check her over, if that’s okay,” the nurse announced.

“Of course,” Mycroft managed a small polite smile.

“May I?” the nurse asked, gesturing to the sleeping baby.

Mycroft didn’t answer, instead he pulled her away from his chest slowly. His heart panged at the loss but he didn’t show it. The nurse manoeuvred her hands around his arms and lifted her up onto the examination bed, slowly she unwrapped the blanket.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “What happens now?”

“We’re just going to check her temperature, we need to make sure her temperature remains the same and then we’ll give her a bath, for now though, we’re just going to give her a look over, check everything ok, and let her sleep. We can move her to a nursery if you need time to yourself or we can leave her in here with you, either is fine, it’s completely up to you. We’ll get a bottle prepared for you soon, a nurse can walk you through it, if you like, and feed her when she’s hungry, you’ll know when she’s hungry, she’ll let you know.” Doctor Greene explained. “After that, when we say so, you can go home, if you’re prepared?”

“I am a little…unprepared.” He admitted, standing up.

“I’m under the assumption, and I mean no offence, that Claire was going to be taking baby home.”

“Yes,” He nodded, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. “She was going to be the primary carer. There will be some…adjustments to make.”

“And you haven’t got a partner?” Doctor Green asked. Her cheeks turning pink. “I’m sorry it’s just-”

“No, its fine,” he said honestly. “I live alone.”

“So there’s stuff that you’ll need of course but Claire had a bag prepared that has everything you’ll need for the first night.” She pulled some leaflets out of her pocket and handed them to him. “These should help, stuff that you’ll need to buy tomorrow and things you definitely need to know and about the arrangements for Claire.”

Mycroft took the leaflets, his eyes flicking over each of them. “Thank you.”

“Everything looks good, Mr Holmes.” The nurse said. Mycroft turned to face her. “Have you got a name in mind?”

“No, not yet.” He admitted, placing the leaflets on his chair and placing one hand on his hip.

“Well, baby Holmes here is ok. She’s very responsive and her temperature is exactly where we’d expect it to be. She doesn’t seem hungry yet, but I’ll bring you the things you need to make her a bottle. And if it’s ok with you, we’ll give her a bath, clean her a little bit. So we won’t bother changing her.” She glanced over her shoulder at him smiled. She was young and obviously enjoyed her work. “I’ll just wrap her in the blanket and you can hold her again, if you like.”

“Please.” He said with his polite smile.

“Also, I’m not sure how aware you are of the ‘skin to skin’ contact routine that most mothers do.”

“You place the newborn baby straight onto the mother’s chest, ensuring bonding through skin to skin contact.” Mycroft summarised.

“You are well informed,” the nurse smiled and picked up the baby. “Well, we encourage most mothers to do this with their babies but also fathers, it’s completely up to you, of course, but it does encourage bonding with parents.” Mycroft frowned. His eyes flicked over her, attempting to read her intentions. There were none. He nodded. She continued. “So, I’ll keep the blanket over her for now, so that she doesn’t get cold. You don’t have to take your shirt off, you can just open it and I’ll place her against your chest, we’ll leave her for about twenty minutes and I can come back and clean her for you.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure Mr. Holmes.” The nurse nodded.

Mycroft pulled of his jacket and folded it, placing it over the back of the chair, along with his tie and waist coat, then he undid his buttons. He looked at the nurse and asked, “Where do you want me?”

“On the chair is fine,” she smirked.

Mycroft nodded and sat down. The nurse cautiously turned the sleepy infant around and placed her gently in his arms, against his exposed chest. His daughter stretched out her arm and yawned.

“I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

 

 

*

 

 

The nurse showed Mycroft how to give his daughter a sponge bath and he helped with large and somewhat cautious hands, running the sponge over her pink skin, carefully avoiding the umbilical cord that was clipped, still attached to her belly button. When they were finished, he dried her off and dressed her in a white onesie with a small bee logo on the right side, it was one from the bag that Claire had prepared. It was full of spare clothes, a hat and coat included, nappies, wipes and clean, sterilised bottles, cream and everything that would get him through the night, at least. The rest could be brought tomorrow.

He picked her up and cradled her in his long arms.

“If you have any ideas about the names or need anything, don’t hesitate to call for me. I’ll be just down the hall, it’s a quiet night, and you’ll be doing me a favour.”

“Thank you.” He smiled, his voice sincere.

The nurse left the room and Mycroft breathed out.

“Just you and me,” he said to his daughter. “I will have to name you soon though, I can’t keep referring to you as ‘baby’ it’s frankly ridiculous.”

She sighed in response which he took for an affirmative.

There was a knock at the door. _Anthea_ , his mind supplied. The door opened.

“Sir,” she greeted with a smile and stepped into the room slowly.

Behind her, Sherlock stepped into the doorway, his blue eyes flicking over the room in half a second before resting on his brother and the newborn baby in his arms. His expression didn’t change. Indifferent. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.

“Mycroft.” He greeted, nodding his head. “Has she got a name?”

“Not yet,” Mycroft answered.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and flicked over the baby in his brothers arms in more detail, taking longer and more detailed observations before flicking over Mycroft who was still not wearing his jacket, waistcoat or tie. If that wasn’t unnerving enough, the sight of him with a baby in his arms was enough to make him go into shock, he didn’t show it. His lips tightened slightly.

_Biting his tongue, so to speak._

“Apologies about Claire.” Sherlock said quietly.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed slightly but he nodded, accepting the small remorse from his brother.

“And this is my niece,” the younger Holmes declared. “She looks…fully formed.”

Mycroft chuckled, recognising the comment and sighed. “Hilarious.”

“She’s got your hair colour.” Sherlock observed, stepping closer and tracing the line of her scalp with his leather covered finger, a millimetre or two above her skin, as not to disturb her. It was fair, light brown with a reddish tinge, auburn. “Not quite red though.”

“A blessing,” Mycroft responded.

“Quite.” The younger Holmes agreed.

“Is there a reason you’re here?”

“You are my brother,” Sherlock sniffed. “Familial obligations and well,” he sighed, and levelled his brother with a look, eyes twinkling with emotion, “nobody should be alone at a time like this, I’ve taken the liberty of bringing Rosie’s old car seat for you, it should suffice until you get your own.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft frowned slightly.

“Can I hold her?” Mycroft nodded and stood up. He watched his brother take off his gloves and put them in his pocket, then pause, and look up at Mycroft through his lashes. He cleared his throat. Mycroft handed him his niece. Sherlock repositioned her slightly and stared down at the baby in his arms, after a few moments he looked up at Mycroft, making eye contact. “She is rather fetching.”

Mycroft hummed.

“When are you taking her home?”

“When the doctors give us the all clear.” Mycroft sat back down and ran both hands down his legs. He was tired. Worn out from the day.

Sherlock was watching his niece thoughtfully.

Anthea cleared her throat. “So, I’ve made some calls. The house is being, prepared somewhat for your visit, a bottle steriliser, some bottles, nappies and stuff, just to get you through the night. We can organise the rest tomorrow. I’ve called ahead to the office, a stand in will be in place, if anything critical comes up, we can sort it from home.”

“I should call my parents,” Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Sherlock’s expression shifted to a frown. “What?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock answered.

“Tell me.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft warned.

“Boys.” Anthea said in a bored tone, not bothering to look up from her phone.

Mycroft looked down at the floor like a scolded child and Sherlock shot her a look somewhere between surprise and amusement. “I was under the impression that our parents were unaware of the situation, so that phone call will be…interesting. They were rather under the impression that you were going to stop keeping secrets, brother mine.”

Mycroft sighed and sat back in his seat, placing one arm on the back of the chair and crossing one leg over the other. “Yes, I’m rather hoping that the addition of a granddaughter will outweigh my omitting the truth, it’s guaranteed in fact.”

Sherlock frowned and his eyebrows raised, he looked vaguely impressed. “True. Rather hard to stay mad at the son that’s given you your first grandchild.”

“The odds will be in my favour.” He agreed with a small lopsided smile.

“A fool proof plan.” The younger Holmes grumbled and looked back down at the small baby asleep in his arms, she was snoring softly, her mouth slightly parted and eyelashes fluttering against her cheek.

“I believe a name is the first order of business.”

Sherlock sighed. “Yes, any ideas?”

“Many.” Mycroft admitted, lips pursing slightly.

“A familial name.”

“Possibly.”

“Did Claire have any names planned?” Anthea asked from the corner of the room.

“Nothing I would feel comfortable naming my child.” Mycroft admitted, glancing over his shoulder at his PA, she was smiling at her phone.

“Will you be inciting the family tradition of ‘strange’ names?” Sherlock asked.

“Your name is William.” Mycroft reminded him, raising his eyebrow. Sherlock shot him an ‘I know that’ look. “But I accept you point.”

“Sherlock...Mycroft…Eurus…”

“Yes, quite.” Mycroft forced a smile.

“Alternatively, you could pick something mundane, like Chloe or Amy.”

There was a pause.

Mycroft watched as his brother shifted instinctively from side to side, rocking his niece with every small movement as she slept. He sighed, “Evelyn.”

Sherlock frowned and looked up, eyebrows raising at his brother. He repeated carefully. “Evelyn.”

“Life.” Mycroft defined.

“Also: uncertain.” Sherlock added.

Mycroft nodded. “A gender neutral name. Also meaning, little bird.”

“Evelyn.” Sherlock repeated.

“Evelyn.” Mycroft said decidedly, nodding his head.  

“You’ve just named your daughter.” The consulting detective smiled and stepped closer to his brother, he crouched down and handed him the sleeping baby. Evelyn stirred but didn’t wake. She settled into her father’s arms with a content sigh, small hand curling into a fist beside her face.

Mycroft watched her. “Evelyn.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “Eve.”

“Really, brother mine?” He asked in a weary tone.

Sherlock hummed. “Yes, I think so.”

“You’ve already given my daughter a nickname.” Mycroft shifted slightly so that he was holding Evelyn with one hand and used the other to push his hair back away from his face.

 

 

*

 

 

The nurse left the room with a smirk on her face. Sherlock was sat on the chair Mycroft had once occupied, his brother was now sat on the examination bed, back against the wall and legs dangling off the end. Evelyn was perched on one of his long arms with a blanket around her.

“You do know how to feed a baby, don’t you?” Sherlock asked.

“I am quite capable.” Mycroft sighed.

“If you’re sure…”

“I am.” He picked up the bottle. It was the correct temperature, the nurse had checked and he had done so afterward, memorising it for future use.

“Have you ever fed a baby before?” Sherlock’s lips pulled into a thin grim kind of smile.

“Are you going to watch and criticise me for the next eighteen years?” Mycroft looked up at his younger brother, raising one eyebrow and then back down at his daughter, offering her the teat of the bottle. Her mouth parted around it and she started drinking the formula.

“It depends, are you planning to get everything wrong?”

“Sherlock.” He warned.

“I’m just trying to help.” The consulting detective said petulantly, clapping his hands together.

“No, you’re being exceedingly annoying.”

“Have you ever fed a baby before?” He asked again.

“For Christ’s sake Sherlock. I fed you and Eurus when you were babies.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Yes, but one of you turned out ok.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips in consideration. After a moment he shrugged and announced, keeping his voice soft. “I suppose you did you best.”

“I always do.”

“When can we leave?”

“You,” Mycroft’s eyes flicked up to him, “are free to leave whenever you desire to.”

“Don’t be dense Mycroft.” Sherlock scoffed. Mycroft frowned. “I’m coming home with you.” The obviously went unsaid. “How else am I to know if you’re doing this correctly?”

“By ‘this’, I’m assuming you mean parenting.”

“Of course.”

“And how long am I…privileged with your company?”

“As long as necessary.” Sherlock answered, sinking further into the chair.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been ages since I've updated this fic (just short of a year) but I originally posted this fic when I was in the midsts of exams and dissertations so this took a back seat to that and also, I've been focused on my other fics. But rest assured, this fic has not been abandoned, I will continue to update it and the gap won't be quite as long.

It took Mycroft longer than he’d care to admit to reaching the front door. Sherlock smirked but said nothing, noticing his brother’s attentiveness in carrying the car seat that contained Evelyn. He could imagine the thoughts running through his brother’s head and thought it best to remain silent. He lifted his head as Mycroft stepped into the house and followed his older brother inside. His umbrella was propped against the wall and his briefcase lain flat on the top of his hallway table. He reminded himself to phone Anthea later and thank her, when he’s organised everything, or at least tried to.

Mycroft walked down the hallway and turned into the living room. He moved around the sofa and placed the car seat on the table, it was antique but sturdy, strong enough to take the extra weight. Evelyn did not stir. She was sleeping, tucked in a pale yellow blanket, wearing a white hat and matching mittens that were too big for her small hands, resting against her covered chest.

“Have you eaten?” Sherlock asked, standing in the doorway.

“Dinner? No.” Mycroft admitted with a small smile, turning to face his brother.

“I assume you have food in this house somewhere.”

“I’m not hungry Sherlock,” he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

“You have to eat Mycroft, if not for yourself then for her, she needs you now.”

Mycroft opened his eyes and stared at his brother for a long moment. Sherlock’s expression was stern, lips tight, there was no room for argument. He looked down his resolve breaking. “I suppose I could manage something small.”

“Of course,” Sherlock nodded and didn’t press the matter. “And what are you going to do?”

“I have arrangements to make.”

“The funeral.”

“That’s on the list,” Mycroft admitted, shedding his jacket and unbuttoning his waistcoat. “I have to somehow make my home suitable to house a new-born baby for the night and care for her the entire time, I have been assured babies eat little and frequently, so I need clean, sterilised bottles. I have to push back my entire week, well, the foreseeable future and somehow add a baby to my already very busy schedule. I have three meetings tomorrow and a lunch with Lady Smallwood before meeting with the prime minister, all of which I can no longer attend. My paperwork will have to be fit in between looking after my daughter. Not to mention I have to somehow tell our parents that I’ve been omitting the truth for nine months and am now a father, a single father, it will be hours before they descend.”

There was a moment of silence. Sherlock nodded slowly and added, “You have two homes.”

“Yes, thank you.” Mycroft sighed and sat down on the sofa.

“Anthea can handle your schedule, she’s perfectly capable and your meetings can be pushed back or you could teleconference in for the ones that really require your attention. Your schedule is heavy because you enjoy work and have very little to do, which can be remedied now you have…” he paused, crossed the room to look at his older brother and smiled, “other priorities. You have people that can begin the process of making both of your homes presentable. Eve will require little attention for the night, you will need to feed and burp her, occasionally change her nappy and let her sleep. She can sleep in your bed for the night. Our parents will be thrilled to learn they are grandparents, yes, you won’t be able to keep them away but once you’ve explained, they will understand.”

Mycroft dropped his head back and sighed.

“Now, get her out of the car seat and I’ll make you something to eat.”

“Bossy much, brother mine.”

“Then perhaps you could listen for once.”

 

 

*

 

 

Mycroft Holmes was in the habit of multitasking, his job required it and often he had to juggle a variety of family problems alongside his work. It made him quite adept to hold his daughter with one arm, she was still sleeping soundly, wrapped in the blanket minus the hat and mittens, and hold his phone in the other, scanning through his calendar with concentrated eyes. There was a bottle of water, open but full on the table, sweating onto the coaster.

Sherlock came into the room with a tea tray.

Mycroft’s eyes flicked up to him and then back down to the phone. He shifted on the sofa, relaxing slightly into the cushions and using them to keep his arm propped up. Evelyn did not wake. The only sounds she made were soft inhales and exhales.

“I’ll be mother,” Sherlock announced with a smirk, perching on the armchair and pouring the tea exactly how he knew his brother would like, more sugar than usual.

“I rather think that I am mother,” Mycroft jested.

Sherlock snorted and added a third heaped teaspoon of sugar into the first cup.

“I don’t take sugar,” He frowned and looked up from his phone.

“You need the sugar, for the shock.”

The auburn haired man’s nose wrinkled in displeasure and he locked his phone, allowing it to drop from his hand to the sofa cushion, it bounced once. “Three meetings rescheduled.”

“And you have enough supplies to last the night?” Sherlock poured the milk.

“The night and morning, yes, supposing she doesn’t completely ruin four babygrows.”

“And you’ll be getting a food delivery in the morning?”

“First thing, I’ve been assured. Everything you could need to take care of a baby, possibly an army of them, Anthea is very thorough.” He looked down at his daughter and used his free hand to pick up hers, relishing in the feeling of her tiny fingers tightening around the pad of his finger.

“And what are we going to do until then?”

“We?”

“You know I abhor repetition Mycroft.”

“I suppose _we_ are going to feed Evelyn when she wakes, wind her and put her back to sleep. Then we’ll find a suitable room for her.”

“You’ll be using the room adjoining to yours, correct?” Sherlock picked up the tea and passed it to his brother, Mycroft leaned forward and accepted the cup with his free hand, placing it on his knee.

“Yes, in the country manor.”

“It makes sense.” Sherlock relaxed into the chair.

“The room here will be the one opposite my own, it’s spacious and light, and close to my own.”

“Sensible choice.”

“I will call our parents at a more suitable time.”

Sherlock frowned. “They’ll value this information far more than sleep Mycroft.”

“It’s twelve-to-one in the morning.”

“Yes, but Mummy will be harder to convince though.”

Mycroft inhaled sharply. “Yes.”

 

 

*

 

 

Sherlock placed an omelette on the coffee table in front of his brother. Mycroft looked up from his sleeping daughter and frowned. She was beginning to get restless, hungry. Sherlock pulled a bottle out of his pocket and presented it to his brother as though it were a bottle of Don Perignon 2006. Mycroft bit back a snarky remark and merely rolled his eyes at his brother. He shifted in his seat and with his free hand, took the bottle from Sherlock.

“You haven’t called them.” Sherlock sniffed, taking his place on the opposite end of the sofa.

“I will call them once she is fed.”

“And you.”

Mycroft nodded and observed, “You are barking orders tonight, brother mine.”

“Sometimes you need to be told what to do and listen.”

The auburn haired man’s nose crinkled, “I used to tell you that.”

“Yes I know and I had to listen because you’re the smart one.”

Mycroft snorted and flicked the lid off of the warm bottle of milk. “Something like that, though I hardly feel like the smart one now, given the circumstances.”

“Self-deprecation is not an attractive trait, brother mine.” Sherlock sniffed.

“No, I suppose not.”

“You should wake her.”

The auburn haired man gently roused his daughter from sleep, taking a moment to appreciate the way her brow creased and lips purse together in an unmistakable pout. It was the same look he’d seen on his brother almost every day since he was born. After her eyes opened and he wiped the sleep that had collected in the corners and lashes with a soft wipe, he moved her into a different position, slightly upright but still cradled in his long arm. He was thankful for his father’s genetics in this instant, in a few months she would be too long to rest in just one arm. He lifted the bottle to her lips and watched her drink, slowly at first, then more enthusiastic until the liquid was gone. It was a small amount, at this age, she would eat little and often and require constant attention.

“That’s a good girl,” Sherlock cooed from the other side of the sofa.

Mycroft cracked a smile in response. Though the compliment wasn’t for him it but his daughter but a warm feeling spread inside of him. He was proud. He mentally berated himself, it was ridiculous to feel proud of a new-born baby for finishing her bottle, but he couldn’t deny the emotion that was washing over him. He ignored it and put her in the correct position, sat on his leg with her head resting in his palm. He began rubbing her back softly, surely until he felt and heard her burp. When he was finished, he looked up at his brother, aware that he’d been watching him avidly like a goldfish with a TV soap. “Satisfied?”

“Yes, it appears you do know what you’re doing,” Sherlock said a lopsided smile on his face.

Mycroft picked his daughter up with great care, his hand supporting her delicate head. It struck him how small her skull was. His hand was bigger than her skull, it seemed impossible that something this delicate could belong to him. She was reliant on him totally. It was his job to take care of her, protect her and teach her. The responsibility of having a child had been something weighing on his mind for the past nine months but now, it was beginning to settle heavily in the put of his stomach. He was a father and this, this beautiful, fragile baby was his for the rest of her life. He shifted her into position against his chest, her head turned towards his head. She was already beginning to fall asleep again.

“Do you want me to take her while you eat?” His brother asked, sure to keep his voice low as not to disturb Eve.

“Later.”

Sherlock nodded and didn’t argue.

 

 

*

 

“I thought it was best to tell you in person, the delicate nature of this conversation should not be undertaken on the phone. I wish for there to be no misunderstanding when I say, the only reason you were not informed sooner, is due to my own reservations about the entire situation. I didn’t wish to be involved, not in the role of parent. Claire and I talked about it, and we decided it was best if I were to see the child in the role as uncle. That way, she would not be used against me and I could avoid her seeing any harm. Of course, things have changed now.” Mycroft stopped and looked down at Evelyn. She was fast asleep, her hands grasped into tight fists against her chest. He asked her, “Do you think that will work?”

“You were going to leave her?” Sherlock’s voice floated from the doorway. He was lent against the wood, arms crossed over his chest.

Mycroft hummed in acknowledgement. “It would have been safer for her.”

“And you.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Quite.”

“I knew you were scared but of a baby, Mycroft that’s ridiculous.” Sherlock stepped into the study.

“I was not scared. I had reservations about the effect she would have on my life and I on hers.”

“Sentiment.”

Mycroft cracked a closed mouth smile and nodded his head in a silent confirmation. Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, “Yes, but none of us is immune apparently.”

“No, we’re not.” Sherlock cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Are you going to call them?”

“This news is better delivered in person. I have a great many of tasks to accomplish.”

“You’re bringing them here.”

“Mummy will be easier to calm down if I’m holding Evelyn.”

“Well, she won’t shout as loud.” Sherlock pursed his lips.

“Quite.”

“So, are you going to bed?”

“No, I have some paperwork that requires my attention. But feel free to make use of your usual room.” Mycroft offered knowing his brother would decline.

“Not tired.” He mumbled, sounding like a young boy once more.

“Well, we both can’t be tired now, can we?”

Sherlock shook his head. “That would be irresponsible.”

“Quite. Though if I am to gather anything, I will be without sleep for quite some time.” Mycroft managed a tight smile at that.

“Well, babies are unpredictable.”

“All the more reason for you to sleep now if you insist on staying.”

“I work better without sleep.” Sherlock reminded him, as though he needed reminding of his brother’s sleeping habits.

“You are not working now.” The elder reminded him.

“True but I need to be your…second pair of hands.”

“I have two hands already, four would be too many.” Mycroft continued with the light-heartedness. “You should sleep, you can help when you wake up.”

When Sherlock spoke again it wasn’t for quite some time and his voice was considerably lower, all the mirth from before was gone. “I don’t think you should be alone.”

“Well, I’ll never be alone again, will I?”

Sherlock studied him for a moment but after a moment, he seemed satisfied. He gave a slight nod. “I’ll see you in the morning then.”

“Goodnight brother mine.”

 

*

 

The kitchen was bathed in a soft golden light from the morning sun the next day when Sherlock stepped into the large kitchen, pausing in the threshold to button his shirt cuffs. He had forgone the jacket, without the need for it, and his hair was a mess from sleep. He looked well-rested, unlike his elder brother who didn’t acknowledge his presence. Instead, he continued to sip at the steaming mug of coffee in his hand and read the paper, it was something of a daily habit. He would check the news and his emails in a bid to be caught up for the day ahead. His laptop was closed, beneath the paper and his daughter, Evelyn, was in the Moses basket Anthea had purchased the previous day. It was close to Mycroft, almost touching his leg and his gaze, should he turn ever so slightly, would be on the sleeping infant.

“Good morning,” Mycroft almost hummed.

Sherlock nodded and stepped further into the room. His steel blue eyes wandered over his brother. He was still dressed in the clothes he wore yesterday, his jacket was not in the room and his shirt sleeves were rolled past his elbows. He put the cup of coffee on the table and without missing a line of the paper he was reading, took in his brother’s appearance and went back to reading. “Coffee in the pot.”

Sherlock went into the closest cupboard and plucked up a cup. He filled it with coffee and added three cubes of sugar. It would help to erase the sleepiness that was lingering behind his eyes.

“She didn’t cry,” Sherlock observed. He took a gulp of coffee.

“Three times,” Mycroft informed him.

“I didn’t hear.”

“She was very quiet,” the government official flashed a fake smile.

Sherlock nodded his head in a slow sure movement.

“They’ll be here within the hour.” He folded the newspaper he was reading and placed it on the counter. Then, he glanced at his daughter. She was still sleeping. Her fingers pulled close to her palms in small red wrinkly fists as she snored.

There was a slight catch in her breath.

She was congested.

Mycroft made a mental note to keep an eye on it.

“I can go home and change, I’ll be back before they arrive.”

“You shouldn’t bother.”

“I promised to stay with you Mycroft. I intend to keep my promise.” Sherlock said firmly.

The sincerity in his tone made Mycroft falter for half a second. He remained composed and nodded his head. He sniffed in feigned nonchalance. “Whatever suits you, brother mine.”

 

*

 

“Where have you been?” John demanded the moment Sherlock reached the top of the stairs. He was sat on the sofa in his pyjamas and jumper with one leg crossed over the other. He immediately uncrossed his legs and placed the tea in his hand on the coffee table beside the morning newspaper and a plate of half-eaten toast. There was tiredness all over the doctor’s body, in the dark circles beneath his eyes and the slight hunch of his shoulders. The late shift at the clinic did nothing for him. His expression now was somewhere between annoyance and worry.

Sherlock shucked off his coat and placed it over the door. Without a word, he stepped further into the living room and picked up his laptop, a quick check for cases would take but a moment.

“Well?” He urged.

“Unforeseeable circumstances.”

“What? Where have you been?” The blonde was quickly losing his temper.

“I met Mycroft at the hospital.”

“Is he ok?” John asked.

“Claire had the baby last night. A girl. Her name is Evelyn. I’ve been with Mycroft all night.”

John’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Is she ok? The baby?”

“Yes, the picture of health. Her mother wasn’t so lucky, there were complications.”

She died. He left it unsaid.

John nodded in understanding.

He was no stranger to death.

“How is Mycroft taking it?”

“In his stride despite his previous insistence that he wouldn’t be involved.”

“Right, so him and the baby…Evelin, they’re home now?”

“Yes, I’m heading back there now. Just came to get changed.” He explained.

John nodded. “Whatever you need to do.”

 

*

 

Mycroft had showered, something which wasn’t as simple as it had been before with a new-born baby in tow. He left her in the bedroom with the door open and the baby monitor that Anthea had picked up. She didn’t as much as stir. When he was dry and dressed in a simple pair of navy blue slacks with a white shirt tucked in. He decided against the tie and waistcoat, instead, he placed a simple light grey jumper over the top. It wouldn’t do to be too dressed up with a new-born baby in the house. He was bound to get messy at some point.

“Shall we?” He asked the sleeping infant.

She didn’t move.

He picked up the Moses basket by the handles and carried it down the stairs with the utmost care.

Anthea was waiting for him in the living room. The briefcase she used to collect papers from the office was open on the coffee table on the corner closest to his armchair with his laptop beside it, closed for now. She straightened up upon his entering the room and a smile appeared on her red lips. It was the only makeup she wore except for a dash of mascara. It was strange seeing her in jeans and a jumper instead of her usual business attire.

“Sir,” she greeted with a small nod of his head.

Mycroft placed the Moses basket beside his chair.

“I trust you had a good night.” She smiled again.

“It was certainly enlightening.” He sighed.

“Your brother is on his way back and your parents will be twenty minutes. The traffic is good.”

Mycroft gestured to the settee. Anthea took a seat and crossed one of her legs over the other.

“No international crises, I assume.” He sat in his own chair with a lopsided smile.

“Nothing uncontainable.” She assured him.

Mycroft nodded.

“Shall I get you some tea?”

“Coffee is more desirable,” he admitted.

“I’ll get you a cup right away.”

“As ever, my dear, you go above and beyond.”

“It’s worth it for the bonus.” She smirked.

 

*

 

Sherlock swept into the room and threw a carrier bag at his brother.

Mycroft caught it purely out of instinct.

“Sherlock, really?”

“Look inside.” Sherlock sighed and threw his coat over the back of the sofa.

Mycroft peered inside the carrier bag. A sigh escaped his lips. The bag contained a gift, a small hat which was now commonly known as a ‘Sherlock Holmes hat’. It had a small Velcro strap to secure it to an infant's head. It was utterly ridiculous.

“I’m not putting it on her,” was all he said in response.

Sherlock snorted. “I expect at least three pictures of her wearing it.

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Mycroft muttered as he folded the bag around the hat and placed it on the coffee table on top of the files in his briefcase. He placed both hands on the arms of his chair and looked in on his sleeping daughter. Her small lips were pursed and her cheeks red. He checked her temperature quickly with the back of his hand against her forehead, cheek and then touched her hands to be sure. She was warm but not warm enough for concern.

“They’re here,” Sherlock said without as much as a look outside.

“Yes,” Mycroft rose to his feet and smoothed out the jumper he was wearing. He inhaled deeply a stepped into the hallway, sure to leave the door open after Sherlock stepped through after him. It wouldn’t do to leave Evelyn in a room alone while his parents scolded him in the hallway but he had a plan. Well, a sort of plan.

“Brace yourself,” Sherlock mumbled.

Mycroft did just that as he opened the front door. His parents were just reaching the top step. Both of them looked at him, his father with a small smile and his mother with critical eyes. He cleared his throat and stepped aside to let them both into the house. He greeted, “Mummy. Father.”

His mother said nothing. She just hugged him and then moved to Sherlock.

“Mycroft.” His father embraced him in a tight hug.

When he was released he closed the door and faced them both.

“What’s the meaning of this then?” His mother asked as she unfastened her coat. Edward, his father, took the coat and placed it on the stand next to the door, then did the same with his own coat.

“Mummy, I merely wanted to talk to you and thought it was better in person.”

Her icy eyes flickered from Mycroft to Sherlock. “It’s not Eurus, is it?”

“Eurus is fine,” Sherlock answered for him. “I visited her three days ago.”

“Then,” his mother frowned, “what is this about?”

“It’s a rather delicate matter,” Mycroft answered with a small fake smile.

“You might want to sit down,” Sherlock added.

Mycroft glared at him.

“Mycroft, tell us this instant.” His mother demanded.

Edward stepped forward and placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Mycroft, if you have something to tell us, just say it. You don’t have to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.” The elder Holmes sibling scoffed.

“I would be if I were you,” Sherlock said beneath his breath.

“Sherlock.” Both Mycroft and his mother said at the same time.

There was a moment of silence. His mother glared at him.

Mycroft sighed and pushed the door to the living room open.

“I must ask you to keep your voices down.” He insisted.

“Why?” His father asked.

The auburn haired man walked into the living room and stood beside his chair, close enough to the Moses basket so that he could see inside but also see his parents. Their expressions were unclear. Confusion settled in as their eyes darted around the room and landed on the Moses basket. Brows furrowed and eyes widened but there were no words. Sherlock closed the door softly.

“What’s going on?” His father managed after a moment.

“I, well, that’s to say,” Mycroft cut himself off and cleared his throat. “I don’t want there to be a misunderstanding. I’m perfectly aware of previous conversations regarding secrecy on my part.”

“But you’ve kept this secret, you have a child.” His mother’s voice was low but her tone hard.

“The only reason I did not inform you sooner is due to my own reservations about the situation.”

“Reservations?” His father repeated.

“Who is the mother?” His mother asked.

“An acquaintance from university. It was never serious, merely a –”

“Dalliance.” His father interjected for the sake of Mycroft’s privacy.

It was clear that he was uncomfortable.

“It was an accident,” Sherlock said. No delicacy there.

“She,” Mycroft corrected.

“A granddaughter.” His mother managed as Edward guided her into the closest seat.

“Claire, the mother, died in childbirth last night.” Mycroft’s tone was devoid of emotion.

“Oh, Mycroft.” His mother almost sobbed.

“It was agreed early on that I wouldn’t take an active part in the child’s life but things have changed now. I will be taking sole charge of her.”

“You’re looking after her alone.” His father said more to himself than anybody else.

“I will be taking care of her.” He confirmed.

“What’s her name?” His mother asked. Her voice was shaky.

“Eve,” Sherlock answered.

“Evelyn,” Mycroft said firmly.

“Evelyn Holmes.” His father said thoughtfully.

“Evelyn Clarice Rose Holmes.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We carry on from where we left off: Mycroft has just told his parents that he is a father, a father of a newborn baby whose mother died in childbirth. Now he has a bit of explaining to do and one thing is for sure, he's not going to be getting rid of his parents anytime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, you lovely people, I know it's been an age since I updated this fic and the truth is I've had most of this chapter since December but just didn't get around to actually finishing and uploading it. BUT HERE IT IS. I've finally managed to complete it. I'm not going to give you lots of excuses, just know that this fic is very much alive and I will be updating it regularly from now on alongside my other fics. 
> 
> I love the thought of Mycroft as a parent so this fic actually warms my heart. 
> 
> I'd love you to let me know your thoughts in the comment section.

Mycroft Holmes could count on his hands the number of times he’d sat and had tea with company in the living room of his London home, excluding Anthea and his brother on a comedown, that is. Now, the room seemed crowded with the addition of his parents and the sleeping baby beside him. His father had recovered somewhat from the news and was pouring the tea. It was a habit of their mothers traditionally but Clarice was too busy staring in the direction of her son and granddaughter. Her head was resting on her hand and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that her mind was racing with questions and possibilities. Sherlock pushed himself away from the wall.

The movement seemed too brash for the still room.

Mycroft’s eyes flickered to him.

Sherlock popped a single sugar cube into the closest cup and then passed it to his brother.

If his mother hadn’t been close to catatonic she’d have noted the peculiarity of the moment.

Edward noticed but he did not comment.

Mycroft placed the cup and saucer on his knee and cast his eyes into the Moses basket.

Evelyn was sound asleep, something he’d have to get used to over the coming weeks.

Babies her age did little else.

He was rather fond of the grey outfit and matching hat that she wore today.

“So,” his mother spoke after some time. All eyes moved to her.

“Yes.” Mycroft prompted gently like coaxing a timid animal.

“You didn’t tell us because _you_ didn’t want to be involved?”

“It wasn’t a question of want. It was about her safety.”

“You wanted to keep her safe,” his father settled on the sofa beside his wife with a lopsided smile.

“It may not come as a surprise to you but there are people out there that would use whatever means necessary to get to me including a newborn daughter. Claire and I discussed it at length, it was safer for all involved if I took a less active role as a” Mycroft waved his hand dismissively as he explained. Ever the politician. “Distant uncle. That way I could still know the child without endangering her life.”

“I knew,” Sherlock announced as though that would help the situation.

“I didn’t tell him.”

“No, I deduced it.” He sounded far too proud.

“And we would have complicated the situation.” His mother sounded sad. Mycroft opened his mouth to protest but she cut him off, “I know, it was never meant to hurt us. It’s true, we would have complicated the matter for you. Sentiment and all that.”

“I’m so sorry,” Edward said after a moment.

“Claire and I were not that close.” He assured him, mask firmly in place.

“She’s the mother of your child.”

“She was.” Mycroft corrected him. “Everybody dies. It’s the one thing human beings can be relied upon to do. How can it still come as a surprise to people?”

It was cold even for him.

Edward nodded solemnly. “I’m still sorry for your loss.”

“The loss is Evelyn’s not mine.” He admitted. “I’m not the one that will grow up without a mother.”

“She may not have a mother but she has us,” Sherlock said with a small smile.

“That’s lovely Sherlock.” His mother said with a small closed mouth smile at her youngest son.

“It may be too much,” Sherlock muttered.

For the first time since his parents had come into his house, his mother and father laughed.

Mycroft did not partake though he did allow an almost smile to cross his lips.

“As fascinating as this is,” he cleared his throat, “I do have matters to attend to.”

“What matters?” His mother demanded. “You’re not going back to work, are you?”

“I have matters retaining to Evelyn, to attend to.” He remedied.

“Is there anything we can do?”

“I have funeral arrangements to make and two nurseries to prepare. I am somewhat underprepared for the situation.” He flashed a grim smile.

“Well, do you want us to take care of her?” She asked, hopeful and concerned.

“She’ll remain with me.” He said firmly.

It was _safer_ that way.

It would put his mind at rest at least.

“What can we do?”

“Enjoy a day about the town.” He suggested.

His mother look horrified at the suggestion.

“We could go shopping,” Sherlock suggested. His eyes went to Mycroft, “you said yourself that you are underprepared, and we could pick you up some of the necessities.”

“No furniture,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock nodded in agreement of the term.

“And we’ll stay the night if that’s ok with you.” His father said quickly.

“Fine.”

“We’ll cook.” His mother added.

“I can feel my brain rotting,” Sherlock grumbled.

 

*

 

“She’s not eating much,” Mycroft spoke aloud for the first time in twenty minutes.

Anthea looked up from her phone with a frown.

Mycroft took the bottle away from the bundle in his arms and examined it. There was barely any liquid gone. It was concerning. He offered it to Evelyn again but she moved her head aside.

“Would you like me to call a doctor?” She was on her feet and at his side in a second. Eyes running over the baby and her boss.

“A consultation wouldn’t go amiss.”

Anthea was already typing away. “Any other symptoms?”

“Nothing noticeable yet.”

“Any odd coloured stools or urine?”

“The urine is a healthy colour. She has yet to do a stool.”

Anthea scrolled for a moment. “There doesn’t seem to be needed for concern just yet if there are any further symptoms contact a doctor or go straight to the hospital. Until then, keep a close eye on her.”

“I sound like a worried parent already, don’t I?” He sighed as he shifted Eve to rest on his shoulder and rubbed her back.

“A little bit,” Anthea admitted with a slight pull of the lips. “But I expected nothing less.”

Mycroft arched a brow.

“You put everything into your work and family, it’s no surprise you’d do the same as a father.”

“Better.” He said with a slight frown.

Catastrophe.

The baby had taken over his life already.

“The funeral is completely arranged for a week today. It will be a small service.”

“Make sure there are flowers.” He said absentmindedly.

There was an expectation to uphold.

“I’ll take the files back to the office if there’s anything you need.”

“Thank you, Anthea.”

 

*

 

 “We’ll spend some time in the country,” Mycroft thought aloud.

There was a momentary silence as Mycroft sorted through the room that was to be his daughters. It was plain, a simple cream colour with gold accents. It was simple and elegant but not suitable for a baby. The entire room would have to be redone. The wallpaper stripped and walls painted. New furniture purchased and all the stuff required for a newborn baby. Anthea was compiling all the relevant information including room inspiration, as she called it. He made a mental note to give her a bonus or the week off somewhere down the line, she deserved it for the past twenty-four hours alone.

Evelyn was asleep in his arms, swaddled in a thin but suitable blanket.

“You’ll have two bedrooms, of course.” He told her. “One here and one in the manor. We’ll have two houses. I know, it’s dreadfully confusing but there’s nothing like escaping the city for a weekend granted there’s no work to be done. Though, I suppose I’ll have to spend less time in the office.”

Evelyn sighed in her sleep. Her small lips pursed and a frown passed across her face.

“It’s time for a bit of a reshuffle.” He studied the bedroom for a moment.

There was more to consider than the bedroom. There was baby-proofing, his manor house was hardly the ideal home for a baby. There was a suit of armour in the dining room that would need to be moved or made safe, somehow. There were companies that did that kind of thing. He’d have to do this house too. Two houses, double responsibility. There was work to think about. He couldn’t continue how he was, working day and night, not with a child dependant on him.

It was worth thinking about. Just not at this second.

Now, he had his parents to deal with. They texted that they were on their way back.

Twenty minutes at the most.

“I have some phone calls I need to make.” He told his daughter.

 

*

 

Anthea was unpacking a mass of bags when he walked past the dining room.

“My dear, you didn’t have to.”

“I did though,” she flashed a smile.

It was true.

Mycroft wouldn’t last the night with Evelyn without these supplies.

“It’s just some bits. Bottles. Steriliser. Clothes. Nappies and wipes. Muslin.” She waved her hands around slightly, “just the usual baby stuff, you know?”

It was rhetorical.

“I do know that I’d be lost without you.”

Anthea continued to unpack the bag onto the table. “Well, we already knew that.”

“I cannot thank you enough.”

“No thanks necessary.”

“I insist.”

“It’s not like I’m here helping you file, you have a life there in your arms. I’m just doing what I can to ease the transition.” She placed a couple of soft toys on the table.

“Well, it is only right I thank you for going above and beyond.”

Anthea paused momentarily and surveyed her boss. “Honestly, it’s my pleasure.”

Mycroft bowed his head. “Well, I’ll see to it you’re rewarded when all of this is…”

“Sorted out?” She suggested.

“Something like that.” He smirked.

 

*

 

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to the elder Holmes sibling that his mother would go overboard.

“She needs clothes Mycroft,” Clarice argued as she folded and placed the new clothes into age-appropriate piles.

“It’s not the clothes I have a problem with, it’s the sheer amount.” He sighed.

“Babies grow fast,” Sherlock chipped in. He was sat in the armchair that Mycroft favoured with his sleeping niece swaddled in his arms.

“Thank you, Sherlock.” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Well, she’s going to get messy. It’s unavoidable.” His mother continued.

“Before you know it she’ll be covered in food and paint.” His father added thoughtfully.

“And her own excrement’s, in all likelihood.” Sherlock sniffed.

“A lovely image.” Mycroft forced a smile.

“Do you want me to put the clothes away?”

“I have nowhere for them to go,” Mycroft admitted. He threaded his fingers together on his knee.

Evelyn whined in the Moses basket beside him. Mycroft’s head jerked to the side before he could stop himself. His practised manner was all but lost. He knew his family had noticed but chose to ignore it in favour of checking over his daughter; his eyes flicked over her form. She was still asleep but on the cusp of waking.

“I’ll make you a bottle,” Sherlock said and quickly left the room.

“I suppose I could arrange the clothes into piles for you in order of necessity.

That was his mother, ever prepared.

“That would be acceptable,” he nodded his head.

“Could I hold her?” His father cleared his throat.

“Be my guest.” Mycroft gestured to the Moses basket. His icy eyes narrowed minutely, unnoticeable to the untrained eye and he threw off an air of indifference – something he’d perfected many years ago. Beneath the façade, he was a little off-kilter. His father had held babies throughout his life but it had been a while and nerves were tingling at the back of Mycroft’s neck.

“Perhaps,” his mother halting her husband before he could stand with a delicate but firm hand on his knee, “it would be better if Mycroft brought her to you.”

Edward nodded.

Mycroft was, in this instance, thankful for his mother’s perceptiveness.

He rose to his feet in a slow, graceful movement. A slight turn of his torso allowed him the perfect position to scoop up the sleeping infant. Her nose scrunched in an annoyed manner and her hands balled into fists. He didn’t allow her the time to get comfortable in his grasp, instead, he moved towards the sofa his parents were perched on and, with all the care he could muster, placed his daughter into her grandfather’s arms for the first time. Her perturbed expression remained for exactly twenty-three seconds before she decided that sleep was still in her grasp and relaxed with a small but audible sigh.

Mycroft stepped back to avoid the appearance of hovering.

“How are you going to cope Mycroft?” His mother’s question was tinged with concern.

“I’m sure we’ll manage.”

“This isn’t like anything you’ve ever done before.”

“I’ve cared for two siblings, arguably not well but, I’m sure that’s enough experience to be going off for now.” He kept his voice smooth.

If his mother was hurt by the comment she didn’t show it.

“I know you like to think you can take on the world but this is different.”

“Quite.” He picked a piece of lint off of his jumper. “It’s far more important.”

“Leave him alone.” Sherlock snapped as he re-entered the room with a bottle prepared for his niece.

“I’m just trying to help.” She argued.

“Interfere.”

“Help.”

“He’s a grown man, fully capable of adapting to most situations. I’m sure the raising of a child will be no different. He takes on countless governments each week.” Sherlock perched himself on the arm of the chair his elder brother had previously been occupying.

“Daily.” Mycroft corrected. The edge of Sherlock’s lip twitched threatening to bloom into a smile. “I shouldn’t need to remind you that I am not a child, mother.”

“I’m sorry for my concern.” Clarice rubbed her hands together and placed them on her lap.

“Your concern is noted.” Mycroft flashed a tight-lipped smile.

“I suppose I have no right to be concerned, you are only my eldest son and first grandchild.”

“Let’s dispose of with the dramatics.”

His father sniffed, “maybe we should get started on dinner. Leave the boys to feed her.”

“The first sensible suggestion of the day.” Sherlock murmured.

 

*

 

“She’ll stop interfering eventually,” Sherlock said into the quiet room.

Mycroft straightened up and glanced over his shoulder at his brother. The consulting detective was sat across the armchair, his legs thrown over the side as he read through a parenting book. It was something their mother had picked up earlier that day and though written by an idiot, there were was merit to the information is provided.

“She’ll try,” Mycroft amended. He was gently swaying from side to side. Evelyn was fed, changed and ready for sleep in his arms. Her eyes were open but the weight of her eyelids seemed to be too much for her, and little by little her eyes closed.

“She asleep?” Sherlock asked, sure to keep his voice low.

Mycroft nodded.

“See, easy enough.” Sherlock looked up from the page he was on and smiled.

“She isn’t the issue,” Mycroft reminded him.

“You’ll be fine once you get into a routine. Babies can be notoriously tricky but once she’d settled into her environment she’ll be good as gold. Not that she can do much besides the obvious at the moment. It’s a little dull, they sleep most of the time and when they’re not sleeping it’s a matter of feeding and changing, very little engagement but very rewarding.”

“I’m aware.”

Sherlock frowned. “You’re concerned about work.”

“It has been the top of my priority list for the past couple of decades.”

“Wrong. Your top priority has always been us, your family. You may hide it but anybody that knows you the least bit knows that.” Sherlock shut the book.

“My disguise is ruined,” Mycroft muttered and turned to face his brother completely.

“You’ll have to talk to work and sort something out. Surely they can manage without you working till all hours of the night.”

“Your age is showing, little brother.”

“As is yours,” Sherlock nodded to the sleeping infant in his brother's arms.

“Touché.”

“Work will understand and if they don’t, demand more money.”

Mycroft snorted.

 

*

 

An odd silence had settled over the house. It wasn’t quite the silence Mycroft was used to after living alone for so many years. There was the shuffle of feet and creak of floorboards from the other rooms occupied by his parents and brother. There was the distinct tap of his brother’s fingers on a keyboard followed by pacing and then a hushed phone call. His room was louder than it had been in years. The soft rhythmic breathing of his daughter may have been almost inaudible to the untrained ear but to him, it was a like a siren. It was new. A sound unlike any the walls of this house had ever heard before.

Evelyn was lain on the bed wearing a plain white onesie. Her face was angled up towards the ceiling but her new eyes were unable to focus on anything in particular. Her cheeks were rosy and Mycroft could barely contain the urge to touch them like some sort of old lady that pinched the cheeks of any child close by. It was abhorrent but he supposed, natural. Most parents would feel this way. It was not uncommon though a new feeling for him.

“I suppose there’s no putting it off,” he said to her. “I’ll have to go to the office at some point to explain my absence if nothing else. I know your uncle thinks the country is capable of functioning without me but he is wrong. They can’t so much as put a new traffic sign in without asking me first. They’re dependent on me, have been since I started working there. It was rather my intention.”

A yawn slipped from the new-born baby’s lips.

“Am I boring you?” A smile tugged at his thin lips.

He perched himself on the edge of the bed and placed his finger in her hand. Her fingers tightened around the digit instinctively. He watched her: the small, uncoordinated movements of her arms and legs, the way she blinked without focus and her mouth opened to reveal her red gums.

“Your mother loved you very much.”

He edged closer to her and lent down so that his face was hovering over her.

“You won’t remember her but she wanted you more than anything. You were everything to her. Just because she’s not here now doesn’t mean that she loves you less. She still loves you wherever you or she is. She’ll always love you, I won’t claim the same we barely know one another but I will never leave you, not out of choice. I’ll always be here for you. That is my promise to you. My vow, my brother made a vow like this before, he did his best to keep it and I shall too.”

Her eyes flicked to him.

“It’s time for bed Evelyn.


End file.
